Rust
by Swallows Fly as Free as a Bird
Summary: His sins ran too deep in red that if he tried to blot it out, the lines of redemption got blurred. Deluded, corrupted, and broken; the world was not as black and white as he thought- but an oblivion of grey.
1. Overtime, Wood Splinters, Metal Rusts

**Author's Note:** Hey there beautiful person! I decided to wake up from my writer's block (hell) and write this story despite everything else I should be updating and/or doing. I know, I know- but listen, I have a valid point! After seeing Captain America: Winter Soldier- just like all of you- I literally was entranced by the Winter Soldier. He's just so amazingly cool on so many levels, what can I say? The level of his badassery is just unreachable, and I applaud Marvel for a more serious plot than the last one. -Robert Redford ftw by the way, classy as usual-

So this is the product of that angst and hurt/comfort feels that Sebastian Stan gave me. Thanks.

Marvel owns everything but my fan-interpreted work of fiction -sadly, I would love to just be near any Avenger cast member- and I am just a writer.

Huge shoutout and thanks to my beta, **Tinseltown **for her help! She was kind enough to read through this and give me advice. I can't thank her enough, this is my first beta- edited story and she has been too kind. Heads up, read her story _"Heading Home" _to get some sense of my inspiration for this, you'll love it.

This is dedicated to a pair of amazing people who actually inspired me to write this:_ T. Kristen_ and my sister. Enjoy.

* * *

_Rust_

His sins ran too deep in red that if he tried to blot it out, the lines of redemption got blurred. Deluded, corrupted, and broken; the world was not as black and white as he thought- but an oblivion of grey.

**"Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal."**

**- Bishop Robert South**

* * *

_Chapter 1- Overtime, Wood Splinters and Metal Will Rust_

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes was like his bereaved distant relative.

They were polar opposites of one another- Barnes was heroic, charming and witty while he wasn't. The sniper was the trusted partner and confidant to the good Captain America, a member of his elite soldiers called the "Howling Commandos." He did things for the good of the war- even if they weren't the cleanest. He had his morals and country to fight for, not some dog fulfilling some else's agenda. Despite this- all his various prestigious awards and memorial dedicated to Barnes, he was the key component to the actual dirty work of the battle against the Nazis.

James Barnes was deathly consistent in the war when it came to his craft of marksmanship and scouting. He kept the good Captain America safe and did what had to be done in times of war. It was those things that weren't awarded with petty medals of valor or at all graceful, but necessary. The earnest Captain America would never do those dirty things that men did in war, no. The Captain fought in the light, bearing his shield as if it were a beacon of freedom and justice to all those who saw it.

James Barnes was his partner that was willing to kill in cold blood to make sure he and his men survived, the man who shot the rounds without an ounce of remorse. He did it because no one else could- it fell to him and he accepted it reluctantly. As long as his best friend charged on, he would be following close behind with a Browning or rifle in hand and a finger constantly on the trigger. He was confident and trained in the art of war, awarded for his sacrifice.

But he had to admit in acquiescence, James Barnes didn't exist anymore than he did himself. They were ghosts, shadows to remain hidden- and just another part of history that was less spoken about or doubted. James Barnes may carry the honor for the both of them but the Winter Soldier carried their sins.

"_Geroicheskiy durak_." He muttered bitterly, glaring into the eyes that were supposedly his. "You were a shadow, could you not see that? Heroic fool..." The narrator continued his speech on the adventures of 'Bucky' Barnes and Captain America, coaxing a dark yet sad chuckle out of the American-made-Russian soldier.

"Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country." He narrowed his grey eyes away from the smirking James Barnes and sighed, disappointed at tragic truth and story. The man who does the dirty work is always the first to die, sometimes he is not even acknowledged or honored the way James Buchanan Barnes had been. The business of recognition was a very dirty and political one, the more important you were, the more little awards you were presented- during your life or posthumously.

"Barnes..." The way the name rolled off his tongue was slowly and quietly- his voice hushed into a low whisper. It was as if he was saying a small prayer to reawaken the part of himself lost over the years. Sergeant James Barnes was just another forgotten memory lost in the cloudiness of his mind, there had to be something of him somewhere.

At first, he was not confident enough to repeat the name that was supposedly his. He felt that he would taint its honor or memory if he did. The Winter Soldier was the tar of hatred and greed, a product of war, and his touch brought only destruction. If he tainted or lost the only thing that was supposedly his, he would be nothing but a coldblooded killer- an assassin with no purpose. He growled at the truth of it all, lifting the olive cap off his head momentarily to rake his left metallic hand through his brunette hair in frustration.

_'Who the hell is Bucky? I am me, I am...' _He couldn't name himself, others referred to him as 'it' or 'him' but Pierce never gave him that privilege- the luxury of an identity. He squeezed his eyes shut in agitation and rubbed his temples as a subtle, nagging pain began to resonate from the back of his head. All this concentration was proving fruitless and irritating for the battle hardened soldier, he was trained to fight and listen to... _'No, not anymore. I am no longer a man who listens. Pierce is not my master.'_

"James Barnes." He repeated it once more for good measure, but it still held the hint of unsureness and conflicting emotions that stirred within him. The headache worsened, but he forced himself to repeat it over and over in his head. He spelt it out, he read it backwards but his words were nothing but hollow, empty grasps at something foreign to him- identity.

_'What the hell am I doing...'_ He questioned pitifully, his lips thinning into a frown as he tried to make sense of himself. All he could do was try, even if it proved painful or useless- he tried.

"James Buchanan Barnes." It left a bad taste in his mouth by then, sour and unsettling his thoughts as the words left his mouth. He had hoped that if he repeated the name long enough and engrained it into his mind, the memories would wash over the walls of entrapment and free itself from their imprisonment. Instead, his head throbbed with pain and the only comfort was that of his counterpart- James Buchanan Barnes, still offering that charming grin.

"No," He growled harshly with the bearing of his white teeth in a pained snarl. He clutched his head between either hand- of flesh and metal- and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he saw white specks appear through the darkness of his vision. Every pound was like someone ticking and chipping away every so slowly at the concrete walls of his mental prison.

"I... will... not let it overcome me anymore..." A dark, low hiss escaped through his grinding teeth as he swore to fight the pain of memory. A few low growls and curses in Russian also found its way into the crowded, buzzing Smithsonian air. His fingers rang around his shaggy brunette hair before clenching into the palms of either hand to form fists. His steel grey eyes shot open in a flash, glaring daggers into the glass exhibit of James Barnes when he suddenly caught sight of himself upon a reflection.

He looked feral. A distraught, escaped animal from his owners- with his hair disheveled, his teeth gritting in a fierce snarl and his grey eyes wide with anger. He bit into the side of his cheek to distract the pain from his thundering head to get a better look at his appearance. He removed both hands from the clutching and tangling of his hair to return hanging loosely at his sides. His hair was standing up, still damp and dripping from the dive into the Potomac earlier.

Underneath the black trench coat was his leather outfit, sticking fast to his skin like a second shell- torn, soaked and ruined. Small holes had riddled the padding of his elbows, there were small cuts into the leather across his chest, and his right arm sleeve nursed a few leather burns and tears. He was a wild animal on the loose now, growling and biting at all those in his path to defend himself. He coaxed a dark chuckle at the thought, being a Russian bear running rampant through the streets full of innocent and naive American civilians- clawing and biting to all those that invade his territory.

The Winter Soldier then stood to full height, heaving his chest out and parting his hair to either side when the gleam of his left hand glared into his eyes. He narrowed his eyes as he raised the Vibranium appendage to the light, casting slivers of light across the navy walls. Everyone around him was too occupied with the exhibits to notice him, either preparing to leave or reading the plaques screwed into the walls.

Those hands had seen and done more evil then everyone there, tainted and dirty with the blood of so many- some he didn't even remember. Every time he tried to recall something, his mind would draw a blank as if it was empty of such memories.

The most tragic of it all was that he could barely recall what happened only hours prior. His mind would have to refresh itself constantly and it would be a whole new moment and experience. Each retention was reminisced with less and less of what had really happened. The empty gaps were replaced with artificial memories, his brain trying to compensate for those memories but it couldn't do it well enough.

If he could remember one thing about the days of the Winter Soldier, it would be the stares from the so many different faces that were blurred and unrecognizable. Yet amongst that mist was their eyes- so clear and full of life. It was in those milky, terrified eyes that screamed for life that he watch them die, see what they saw before falling into the depths of oblivion and darkness.

He thought on how easily those metallic fingers could ring around the closest victim's neck and snap it without a second thought or doubt. He had enhanced reflexes, deathly quick and his reaction time so sudden that no one would realize what just happened. It would be subtle and painless if done right, especially in his hands. The art of assassinating and death was his life, he was trained to do as he was told and how. It was his main reason of existence, even for James Buchanan Barnes. He was in the war to kill the enemy and do what Captain Steve Rogers couldn't do.

He held up both hands to the light and admired the muscles of his right hand that moved and danced at his command, his fingers bending and curling. His hand was so intricate, elegant and alive to him compared to his left one, the skin of his fingers creasing with every bend. His right hand was so much more colorful and rich as well.

The way the different shades of tan, peach, and pink blended together at his knuckles and svelte fingers was masterful- followed with the blue lines of his pumping veins. Yet it was this beauty that held the same sins and deathly abilities of his dull metallic hand if he so inclined. He let out a low growl, tightening his right hand into a fist until his knuckles were white and his tan skin turned red with pressure.

How different those hands were yet they belonged to the same man, capable of the same pain. It was like James Barnes and himself, he understood this now. Their differences were great but undeniably, they were one.

"James Barnes... Is it possible?" His gaze skimmed through the faces of every Howling Commando member to land on James Barnes. He wore a blue coat, a rifle slung over his shoulder as he stood beside "Jim" and "Dum Dum", his facial features hard and stern. He took note of every wrinkle and pore of his face. It was as if he was studying a new target, trying to read past the photos and empty faces but he still felt no tinge of remembrance.

In fact, he hadn't given much thought on his own appearance until that moment. In his searching for answers, the skin deep similarities were discounted as hard evidence for a couple reasons. It wasn't good enough to support his claim of being James Buchanan Barnes, he claimed it would be just coincidence when the resemblances appear after a proper shave or haircut. The other was because it would be a low and cheap way to get a name- he wanted to know who and what he was. It is one thing to be _told_ who you are and another to _know_.

"You died with honor Barnes." He admitted finally, looking down to his gloved left hand in a short lived moment of disappointment. His shimmering metal fingers shone through the holes of his knuckles and his eyes darted away, not ready to face that chapter yet. "But you were reborn a sin."

His hands clenched into fists, both flesh and metal, his jaw tightening in anger at the prospect. He was to kill Captain America- Steve Rogers, his best friend, for what? Who was he even taking orders from? Pierce? Those men in white lab coats that were the first to see him arise without any memory of only a few short moments ago? Or was it the men with black uniforms that carried firearms at all times, sometimes even pointed at him? The throbbing pain had subsided for the moment but he knew it would return soon enough. He was determined to uncover even a minuscule amount of himself, he had to. If not, then his handlers were the one who would answer for him.

"The Howling Commandos: Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes." He had moved on from James Barnes to the exhibit on the Howling Commandos, maybe the tales of their exploits would help. A glance to read all their faces might tell him something behind their smiles and empty stares. "Their mission: taking down HYDRA, a Nazi rogue deep science division."

**HYDRA**...

The name sounded so familiar, stirring the need to fight something at that moment. The Winter Soldier's lips edged ever so slightly downward, his face making a slight scowl at the name. He felt he had to protect something- anything- but he wasn't sure of what or why. The adrenaline began to make his mind rush as a small tinge prickled his thoughts.

"Hydra..." The organization sounded so wrong as he repeated it in a low murmur, yet it didn't feel out of place either. It was just at the edge of his memory, like a little snag gnawing at him because he couldn't remember why it was so familiar to him.

He felt unnerved with these unknown feelings swelling deep within his chest and head. It was dizzying to think about it, feeling his stomach curl up and his breaths cut short in wheezes. The headache had lessened considerably with the adrenaline pumping through him, his hands trembling with the anxiety. Something was buried and hidden deep within that need to shield and protect everyone in that exhibit.

He couldn't explain it, but as he stole glances around him, he counted each head and kept an eye on the nearest exit- should he have to escape and usher them to safety. The Winter Soldier glared at the photograph of the Howling Commandos with stiff indifference, what was he thinking? He was a trained assassin, he was not a guard dog- but a ferocious bear. He would have to push those thoughts of heroism aside, he had to find out who James Buchanan Barnes was first before taking that leap towards redemption.

He wasn't sure what to make of this, this strange choked up feeling that seized him by the throat. With his handlers, he wasn't allowed to really think unless it pertained to the mission. However, he wasn't with his organization anymore. In these short hours of going rogue he felt like everything about him was beginning to unravel and come apart. He wasn't being monitored anymore, he wasn't being told or directed in what to do, he was just there.

On his own free will, the Winter Soldier made the effort to find an old, beat up trench coat and cap from the dumpster of a local Army Surplus shop. However, after this degrading but necessary acquirement of new clothing, he made the trek over to this renowned Smithsonian Museum. He did so in his usual fashion, without being spotted or drawing close to any attention to himself to easily slip inside. He knew that visiting the showcased exploits of Captain America and the Howling Commandos was vital in this first step towards being James Buchanan Barnes- a step towards a new direction and road. He questioned if turning back was even possible for a man like himself but he had the disembodied voice of Steve Rogers, Captain America, play over and over to press him forward.

_"I'm with you till the end of the line..." _The Winter grimaced at the fading memory of those reddened with tears, puffy and strained blue eyes staring at him with such finality- it was not what he remembered for all the others. While they cried and begged for mercy, _that _one refused to. His sole mission to complete- kill Captain America- and he couldn't go through with it because of those words. He froze, his muscles tightened and his mind rushed with adrenaline when he stared into those blue eyes, and he failed his mission.

The Winter Soldier suddenly felt exhausted, rubbing his temples to ease the pain subtly returning from the sudden memory.

He had to find new wardrobe to drape over and hide his metal arm from public view- which made other people uncomfortable to look at. (He came to realize this when he approached a couple walking down the sidewalk opposite of him. As the dominant male caught sight of him, he shielded the lesser female companion away from the Winter Soldier's vision and scrambled to cross the street.) He couldn't blame the couple though for their fear of the unknown. If he had a choice on the matter, he would rather have the comforting color of flesh and skin for an arm than this dead, metallic one.

It performed just as equally as his other arm. It flexed at his command, he could touch and get the feel of an object- even though he felt the cold steel of a gun most of the time- and it operated much like his right hand. His handlers took meticulous care of the cybernetic appendage, they would run numerous tests after he woke up in that _chair. _They would have him aim and shoot with either hand and jot down the results into mathematical diagrams and reports- statistics and other things that he wasn't quite sure of what they were or represented.

But he listened. He did his training, he took his choice in weaponry, and then shipped out to the field to do what he was made to do. If James Buchanan Barnes was him, he must have went through the same grueling process of training. If he charged through the HYDRA battlefields with Captain America, he was highly trained to fire his rifle with the highest accuracy. That man also had to be able and take to the night for stealth and reconnaissance missions. That's what the memorial said anyway, the scout and marksman of the Howling Commandos. The Winter Soldier however knew better than the propaganda at this exhibit- James Buchanan Barnes was a trained assassin, much like himself.

The exhibit proved to be more helpful than he thought it would. When Steve Rogers told him he was James Buchanan Barnes, he immediately was directed to the renowned museum. Small banners and advertisements were placed everywhere, every bus had a poster with Captain America plastered on it and the address of the Smithsonian- as if they already knew he would try to uncover the truth. He wasn't afraid of his handlers finding him, he was a dead man in their eyes.

The Winter Soldier grunted at the idea, a dead man walking, only to be proclaimed dead once again. He knew death would work to his advantage, remaining among the shadows was his primary skill in the field of espionage and assassinating. He thought it just ironic that the dead man wouldn't _stay_ dead. World War Two or Modern Day couldn't kill him, he supposed death would be too kind for a man like him.

The Smithsonian was such a grand place for him to navigate through without someone whispering coordinates in his earpiece. The museum was a system of separate buildings and exhibits, complete with varying branches and topics. There was the Air and Space Museum, the main building- which held the Captain America exhibit- and a few other museum branches he didn't catch the name of or conprehend.

Despite the small progress he made today, he was still far from reaching his objective. Captain America claimed they were childhood friends, sticking together till the end...

_"Hey! Pick on someone your own size!" His voice sounded so foreign and unknown as he barked out his orders defensively. A scowl was on his features as his cool blue eyes hardened into a glare towards the wrangle-haired, scruffy brunette. He gripped the brown leather fabric of his jacket and hauled him away from the smaller counterpart, who's face was very familiar but his body so weak and frail. He came just in time, or else that man would've left a number on the smaller one. He shoved the larger man towards the alley's entrance and open street, adjusting his brown uniform jacket and dusting himself off. The man took a swig at his jaw but it was easily avoided, met with a quick fist to the chin and a swift kick in the rear to make him run along. _

_"I had him on the ropes." A soft chuckle escaped his lips, rolling his eyes lightheartedly as the smaller companion wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth. He suddenly caught sight of his appearance, his mouth agape in fascination and his eyes twinkled with the slightest bit of hurt. "You got your orders?"_

_"Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. Shipping out tomorrow." _

The Winter Soldier squeezed his eyes shut as the memory came and went as quickly as it happened. It was blurred and unclear, though he could recognize a voice within the fog other than his own. The voice that had been repeating in his head was also the face of the scrawny companion, Steve Rogers. He was so willing to fight and continue that meaningless scuffle until his honor was upheld. He questioned Captain America's mindset and how he could have survived through the war without backing away from a fight. He should know well enough that war wasn't about how many battles you've won, but how it was executed. If the mission was to assassinate a major political target, it was more important than a couple thousand men firing at each other incessantly for months on end.

The Winter Soldier then tried to recall and look back to that small, headache-ridden memory. It was like photographs in slow successions, flipping through every page with a tedious attention to detail as the words slowly echoed in his head.

_"Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th."_

_"Pick on someone your own size!" _

The air, the clothing, the accent, was this how James Barnes was? He would step in for Rogers after one too many hits and protect the fragile Captain America? He scowled and knitted his eyebrows together.

"He was a fool for protecting a man that could not stand down from a fight." He felt something else enkindle within his mind and chest, stirring and seizing his emotions. It was strange, like a hollow sadness of some sorts, but it was still disappointed. The Winter Soldier pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slightly, his eyes remaining impassive as he realized that going rogue was more than just physical freedom.

He now had the power to express emotions and _feel_ just the slightest bit human, act as the people around him acted, do as they do. Even if his hand gleamed of Vibranium, the rest of his body was flesh and bone, despite what his handlers thought he was. The Winter Soldier wasn't impenetrable or indestructible like a mechanical assassin, needing no aid until the deed was done. In reality, even a engineered robot needs to be oiled and maintained to continue working. His body required proteins and well-nourishment, exercise, rest, training, the Winter Soldier was beginning to realize he was as human as his handlers were.

James Barnes was in the 107th until his capture, but to be safe, he discounted the curt and blurred memory for hard evidence. His mind wasn't completely intact- in retrospection, visualizing and making the memory _feel_ real could be his mind creating artificial recollections as a safe guard from his actual memory and consciousness. His own mind wasn't a reliable source, he knew this much was for certain. His handlers would never just allow him to get his old life back- if he had any past life that is- and even if he was a dead man, they will search until every stone was turned for him or his remains.

His search for answers could take longer than any other mission he had before.


	2. The Hydra

_Rust_

His sins ran too deep in red that if he tried to blot it out, the lines of redemption got blurred. Deluded, corrupted, and broken; the world was not as black and white as he thought- but an oblivion of grey.

**"How can the confessor teach those who are lost and sick at heart, when he himself, among the sinners, is worst, and most forsaken? It is only a game we play with other people's sins. Besides, everyone knows that everyone lies confessing."**

**-Yevgeny Yevtushenko**

* * *

_Chapter 2: The Hydra_

* * *

The exhibit at the Smithsonian gave him purpose; a mission, a name to the people who made him into what he is. His handlers were the sullen skull that watched with no eyes, the fine row of teeth that snarled and intimidated people into their unconditional surrender of the mind and body. Alexander Pierce, the scientists in white lab coats, the mercenaries, they all were the protruding tentacles that strangled and reached to the far ends of the world to entrap everyone within its grasp.

They were HYDRA.

The words were bitter on his lips, stinging with the sour taste of anger and hatred as the stray thought gnawed at his mind. He detested the very idea of being HYDRA's guard dog. The Winter Soldier was only to be summoned by special order, the final and last option for assignments that required his expertise. He proved to be the most powerful weapon in HYDRA's arsenal. He followed orders without question; like an obedient hound that was trained to act upon command by his master. The recollection of Alexander Pierce's hollow words found themselves in his head again, retaining their cold and empty attempts for consolation that held no value since the moment they were said.

_"Your work has been a gift to mankind."_

Mankind. The people. Men, women, children; a world full of unaltered innocence that was rivaled only by their unchallenged trust in their governments to protect them. HYDRA was not the superior race above the average man, the Winter Soldier could assume this much with his limited knowledge on humanity. Steven Rogers was proof of mankind's infinite potential for good, a role model and the symbol of an entire nation during World War Two. Captain Rogers was just another frail young man with ambitions; having a mind and heart to match his adventurous soul that proved to be stronger and purer then the men at Camp Lehigh. Man was capable of good, even when the world seemed dark.

He stopped walking along the endless pavement of the city and faced the street; watching as the cars blurred past in colors momentarily. This new world was so alien and foreign to him, the structures of each building represented something new as he watched passerby disappear into each. Though there were many, sights and sounds of Washington D.C. were not what caught his attention. The Winter Soldier found himself understanding the simplicity of the lives that surrounded him. Within his hollow shell of a world, orders were undeniable law and their words were to be obliged to without interpretation. The Winter Soldier only found solace by performing to perfection at their command. He paused briefly to observe and catch a glimpse of the life he never knew existed before his time going rogue.

For the average civilian, they had no orders to oblige to except for the daily routine work of their jobs. With their varying schedules ruling over their monotonous lifestyles, errands were to be completed, paperwork was to be stressed over, and money was to be made. From afar in a perspective that was so used to order, watching as people continued their mad scramble for higher goals was dizzying.

The Winter Soldier was so unaccustomed to this modern world, he found normalcy and comfort within his desire to unravel the truth behind HYDRA. He was tasked with a target to eliminate and an objective to achieve, no longer an aimless wanderer through the streets of Washington D.C. In the four hours that followed his disappearance from the Potomac river, he had never felt so preoccupied with his work.

"_Я должен продолжать двигаться_. Someone might recognize me." He trained his grey eyes to watch each step, casting his gaze downwards and pulling the olive green military cap over his eyes to further shield his face from view. He continued down the street in an effort to distance himself from the cars whirling past in blurred colors, filling the air with their loud horns. He felt uncomfortable to be so near other people; brushing shoulders with young men who laughed into their cellphones and held the hands of their female companions, or meeting the gaze of curious passerby until he would turn away in hurry. He watched as this large crowd, full of various lives and people that would never meet again, strolled side by side in one cohered mob of languages and colors.

"_Наивные дураки_. They have no understanding of the real world." He muttered bitterly underneath his breath. For a brief moment, he looked away from the endless grey underneath his black boots and found himself immersed in another crowd; most of the civilians surrounding him were wandering without direction. He tucked his Vibranium arm inwardly to his chest, shielding the metal appendage in order to prevent any wandering passerby accidentally brushing along the cool metal underneath the leather trench coat.

The Winter Soldier came to the conclusion that from the Smithsonian he should reach any areas supplying vital information to his target. He generally understood the importance of certain buildings in the jungle of concrete and brick that was Washington D.C., half from memory and half from analyzing its appearance and occupants. He learned of a landmark called the Congressional Library from a travel guide of the city he found while 'acquiring' his new outfit, and set out to find it. He was scouring and chasing every possible source for information, gathering anything he could get on HYDRA.

Since the Winter Soldier no longer had an entire support team of men working tirelessly at consoles and directing him through his earpiece, all information would have to be through himself uncovering it. It was a task he accepted without delay. There was power in freedom; the options he could utilize, the choices he chose, they were his to make. The most underrated liberty of human nature was their freedom, appreciated only once it is lost and time had stolen away this right for seventy years. The Winter Soldier no longer had to report back to his handlers with the words of success on his lips, rewarded with the cold sting of ice piercing his skin until the warmth came. When the warm breezes of winter's slow thaw came and went with his freedom, his nerves slowly reawakening until he could curl his fingers upon command and find himself back in the arms of the Hydra.

"The Hydra," He felt his fingers dig into his palms, metal and flesh clenching together for one common enemy, until he managed to compose himself. This newfound freedom was still a new and foreign experience, but it was something he relished in a strange way. "Has no right over me. They are as good as dead." He continued shuffling along the crowd until he caught sight of the towering gothic library built and carved from stone. The Winter Soldier craned his neck upwards to absorb the entire scope of the building, larger than pictured in the travel guide. The library's enormous size only intimidated him slightly because he needed what was inside; the contents of the stone walls had what he sought after. The Winter Soldier paused before the first set of stone steps and trained an eye to the people rushing past him.

The steps of the Congressional Library were bustling with life. The people entering and exiting the grand building continued to pass by the Winter Soldier without a casual glance of interest in his direction, too busy with their own lives to notice. Students carried large backpacks full of their supplies to utilize the resources of the building, average civilians visited for the tours and historical value of the building; whatever the appearance they all trudged onwards with bright, superficial smiles or lofty, self indulged laughter. It made the Winter Soldier question the public's trust in their governments. They managed to be so carefree despite of the crisis that happened a mere few hours prior in the heart of the United States.

"Excuse me sir." His reverie was interrupted with a stern, agitated voice coming from behind him. On instinct, he turned on his heels and immediately faced the source of the voice. Involuntarily- his reflexes that were so adapt to this routine for the past seventy years- his Vibranium hand twitched towards the pocket knife tucked into its sheath underneath his right leather sleeve. He resisted the urge to plunge his knife into their throat for ever using such a belittling tone with the world's greatest assassin, his fingers tracing over the handle of the hunting knife. He immediately regretted ever harboring such dark thoughts of respect-through-pain when his steely grey eyes met hers.

It was a woman, her brown eyes were still bright with youth yet held the same firmness of maturity for her age. For a brief moment, the Winter Soldier saw the reflection of himself in the orbs of her eyes, his left hand poised just over his right hand's sleeve in waiting. He caught himself in the stance like a scorpion, expectant and cool under the pressure of imminent attack. It was a game of waiting, always on the tips of toes until the other lunged first. He looked feral once more, returning to the man he did not want to be anymore.

He watched as she cradled and struggled with a furious baby girl dressed brightly with spring colors. The child kicked and screamed at her mother in anger, craving something the mother would not provide as he observed. As well as fighting with her daughter, she commandeered a large plastic stroller that held another child; a girl blissfully dozing asleep with a firm grip on a rag doll adorned with fiery red hair and rosy cheeks.

He did not respond. His breath got caught up in his throat and the words of apology never found their way out past his imagination. He merely stepped aside and hung both arms to the side, allowing her passage to the stone steps of the library. The Winter Soldier allowed her brown eyes to remain burning in the back of his mind, reminding him of a fiery brunette James Buchanan Barnes may have known in his lifetime.

"Margaret!" A voice sharply rose in irritation, the incessant crying ceased when the little girl realized just how angry her mother was at her behavior. She was a mother behaving like any other; caring for her two children- daughters- when the Winter Soldier was blocking her only way to the steps. He had failed to be aware of his surroundings, a mistake not often made by a man of his abilities, and like a paranoid animal he became defensive and prepared.

His reflexes almost got her killed with his bare hands because she caught him off guard. He failed to realize her presence and after years of assignments and pain, the Winter Soldier did not take kindly to surprises or strangers coming up from behind. His chest was seized by another emotion he could not describe, a feeling of self-loathing or guilt that made his head throb against the walls of his skull. His fingers clenched and responded to his involuntary reflexes, the faint noise of his shallow breathing escaping his mouth. The brown eyes that burned slowly reflected something deeper, a beast that lied within the Winter Soldier and emerged when threatened to defend his territory and himself.

He shoved his fists into his pockets and glared into the pavement, a very familiar feeling of anger washing over him in droves. If the Winter Soldier's fighting need did not suffice, the need to leave replaced his defense; the fight-or-flight scenario that had kept him alive for seventy years.

This was different. He wasn't running from danger or threats, he was running from himself. He had to leave the scene as quickly as possible; the Winter Soldier was fully aware of his capabilities and with one swift movement he could kill anyone within a three meter radius if required to. He watched her struggle up the steps for a moment, a part of him screaming at him to help her and the other berating him for ever thinking about killing that woman. Conflicted, he would have offered assistance if he knew how to; if he did not have to worry of his touch harming those children in her arms.

Instead, he took the opportunity to rush up the empty stone steps and didn't look back; even when she cursed him for being inconsiderate.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Marvel owns everything but my fan-interpreted work of fiction -sadly, I would love to just be near any Avenger cast member- and I am just a writer.

Huge shoutout and thanks to my beta, **Tinseltown **for her help! She has been a huge help in developing this story and her advice is the best! "_Heading Home_" has finished but her new story, _"The Original Three_" is out now!

This story is dedicated to a pair of amazing people who actually inspired me to write this:_ T. Kristen_ and my sister. Hope you like it too! See you next chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Lurk Preview**

Ropes confined him to the plastic chair, digging into his wrists whenever he shifted his weight. The ropes were expertly tied; he knew this because whenever he attempted to pry his hand free, the ropes would tighten around his chest and wrists. He was placed in an awkward position, maybe to force his instincts to cloud his judgement, to allow the pain that slowly crept up his arms and pulled at his shoulder blades back in an awkward jerk to settle a fear inside his head.

"_Кто тебя послал_."


End file.
